The Banyan Tree Musical Club

There is a travel article that needs to be written entitled "Hanoi: Beyond the Old Quarter". Most tourists have no sense what's out there. It helps if you have a motobike and don't mind risking your life squeezing your bike down narrow lane ways and dodging the oncoming obstacles, not to mention the ones that pop out sideways from hidden doorways.

Last Saturday I took advantage of the warm weather (ahhh, 25C in January!) and hoped on my bike with my map and the intention to worm my way across the city using only obscure laneways. My eventual destination: the Temple of the Kneeling Elephants (Den Voi Phuc) near the botanical gardens.

I still can't get over Hanoi's network of lanes. This is the Hanoi tourists are oblivious to. In fact, these are where most Hanoians live and it is one reason why this city will always be at least somewhat resistant to cars. They can only be reached by foot or two wheeled vehicles and they can be long! God forbid my motobike were to break down in the middle of one and I'd have to walk my way out.

I'm pretty good knowing my way around the main streets of Hanoi, but then every large city block seems to contain a vast terra incognita. I still can't figure out how to penetrate into the core of the block I live in, even though I can see acres of houses from my rooftop. Also it seems so many of Hanoi's 150 plus lakes are hidden smack in the middle of these blocks and invisible from the main streets.

So I took the very long way through the city, popping out onto main streets and slipping back into side streets on the other side. Eventually I made it to the Temple of the Kneeling Elephants, named after the creatures guarding the entrance. This is one of the four temples, one for each cardinal direction, that are supposed to protect the city from evil forces. It was built in the 11th century in honour of Linh Lang, son of Emperor Ly Thanh Tong, and one of the mythical Vietnamese boy-heroes who fought off the Chinese.

It's a charming little temple and, since it turned out to be the 15th of the lunar month, it was hopping inside. On the temple path though I was distracted by a little gathering of old-timers under a huge banyan tree who were using the temple gate as a stage for music making. A couple of erhus and banjo type stringed instruments were being used to accompany the singers up on the gate steps. When I stopped to listen they waved for me to come and sit down but I declined and went on to the temple. On my way back though, I paused again and this time a friendly old guy lept up, grabbed my arm and dragged me over to the table. So I gave in, sat down and let them feed me little mandarin oranges and candy. I was there for an hour.

They were so friendly that at first I suspected they might in fact be drunk. I suppose the amber liquid coming out of those thermoses could have been some kind of herbal ruou, but actually I think they were just high on life or something. In any case, they seemed thrilled to have me as their guest and took turns sitting next to me, shoving food in my face and trying to quiz me. So much for the supposed crusty reserved character of Hanoians. (This reputation is completely unfounded in my experience.)

Of course I let them indulge in the usual series of questions, but conversation was naturally limited. This older generation would have had few opportunities to learn English. In fact, for years of their lives it would have been illegal. Instead when my Vietnamese skills were clearly exhausted they tried the languages of their generation: Chinese, Russian, French. One lady was especially determined to communicate. She got all animated when she learned I was from Toronto. Something about her son, studying, Toronto, March, here is his phone number. At a crucial moment an older toothless stringed instrument player suddenly appeared at my side and began speaking German. Why not? White guy. Must know German.

Actually German is not so uncommon among older generations. This is one of the legacies of the political connection with the former East Germany. Through my interpreter I clarified. Her 23 year old son will be moving to Toronto in March to study. Like a good mother she saw an opportunity here. Will I meet him, she wanted to know?

I was hesitant at first, but actually I am happy to oblige. Not to get mushy, but the kindness and generosity shown to me here has been overwhelming at times. From the very beginning I have been embraced by so many people who have gone out of their way to open up their lives to me. It has often made me wonder to what extent we truly welcome newcomers to Canadian society. And when we do, how often is our hospitality offered out of self-conscious charity rather than a willingness to truly make new spaces in our personal lives. I am glad to have the opportunity to return a bit of the favour. Tonight I will meet Thang at a cafe on Ly Thuong Kiet.

Flamenco in Alley 61

A new friend from the gym asked me recently if I liked music. I thought it wise to hedge lest I get invited to another evening of off-key karaoke. Then he clarified and asked specifically about classical music. So I pictured an evening at the opulent Opera House. Wrong again. How about classical guitar in a cafe near Nguyen Trai St?

I accepted but later doubted I'd heard right. Nguyen Trai is the big dustbowl thoroughfare I take every day to and from work. It is the main to route through the burbs of Thanh Xuan and is currently the site of major overpass construction. Past the bridge site I'm sure there are lots of cafes - they are ubiquitous in this city - but live classical guitar seemed so unlikely. Vietnamese pop videos or live bong da (soccer) on satellite maybe.

Well, Hanoi is a city of surprises. What casual visitors to the city never see is the extent of the maze of laneways that make up this city. They are endless and quirky. Some promising ones fizzle out after a few turns. Others seem to be going nowhere and suddenly yield new networks complete with noodles shops, hair salons and internet cafes. I've heard the laneways of Hanoi compared to the medinas of Morocco in their complexity. You never know what is waiting for you around the corner through the next crack in the wall.

In this case, it was a bohemian guitar salon. Bao pointed his motobike down some narrow little corridor off a main street and we emerged into a little parkette type opening. Just past that was our destination.

Nhac Tranh Cafe has only two little rooms. The first room is where you place your order, the second room is where the action is. There are several rows of low wooden benches (which refuse to accommodate Western spines) facing on to tiny stage. The yellow walls have character, all chipped and worn and covered in portraits of what it seems are the patron saints of this cafe: John Lennon, Trinh Con Son, and any Spanish guitarist. There is a large framed portrait of Andres Segovia over the stage. Once the room is packed your order is likely to be delivered from the outside through the window. The room is lit by candles and it seems the music begins when a small hurricane lantern is brought to the stage.

First up, a former professor from the National Music University, all tweeded up, performing Spanish classical. He is great but so unassuming and cracks only a faint smile when the applaud comes. The audience seems to be mostly students, many probably from the same institution as the prof. His act is followed by his students. The repertoire gradually gets less classical, less tweedy and more flamenco. And those nervy students get virtuosic. Wow! Sometimes it could only be played by the Buddha with a thousand arms. Too many notes, not enough fingers. But they do it. Meanwhile to our side are four fine arts students with a pad whipping off line drawings of the performers.

I am thinking I'm the only whitey in the joint when suddenly they pull a real live Spanish guitarist out a hat at the back of the far room somewhere. The master brings along a student on stage for a flamenco duet, followed by a kick-ass Cuban vocal number. The tiny room goes wild.

Sometime during all of this I start feeling watched. It turns out the art posse has decided I make ideal sketching material. I guess that's what I get for being in extreme minority. Even when the show is over they want me and Bao to sit there a bit. It's an odd experience. Where are you supposed to look when you are being sketched? I am flattered even if most of the sketches are not altogether kind and seem to overestimate my age. Must be the dim ambient lighting.

I didn't know there are real bohemian places left in this Starbucks world. It was all very 1963 Greenwich Village, but in a completely unselfconscious way. God forbid the Lonely Planet gets hold of this, but you know the remoteness of Alley 61 should be enough to protect it. The next day I text Dat to tell him about this discovery. He knows about it already, and is completely shocked that I've been let in on the secret. How many other secrets is Hanoi hiding from me?

Promise not to tell?

Quan Nhac Tranh
Alley 61, Thai Thinh St.
Thanh Xuan District